Brave Genius

by Sean B. Carroll

  Writing as war engulfed western and northern Europe and North Africa, and as the fear of another mass slaughter was becoming realized, Camus underscored the immediacy of the question: “I see many people die because they judge that life is not worth living. I see others paradoxically getting killed for the ideas or illusions that give them a reason for living (what is called a reason for living is also an excellent reason for dying). I therefore conclude that the meaning of life is the most urgent of questions.”

  Camus asserted that meaning had to be approached, first and above all, in the light of the absurd condition of human existence—of the conflict posed by the human desire for meaning and the total indifference of the universe to that desire. And, second, one had to consider meaning in the face of the obvious fact of a finite lifetime and a certain death. Integrating these two elements, the central question for Camus thus became: If everyone is destined to die and the universe could not care less, how can life have any meaning?

  “Man is mortal,” wrote Camus. “One can nevertheless count the minds that have deduced the extreme conclusions from it.” In his essay, Camus sought to push those conclusions as far as his reasoning could take him. He wanted to explore “a universe suddenly divested of illusions and lights,” in which “man feels an alien, a stranger.” He identified and analyzed three possible responses to the absurdity of existence: suicide, taking a leap of faith, or embracing the absurd and living life fully in the face of it.

  For Camus, suicide was a confession that life “is not worth the trouble” and denial of any reason for living. He rejected it on the grounds that it was merely a way out of the question. Likewise, an appeal to faith, to God, to something outside of known experience was also a complete elusion of the question, an act of “philosophical suicide” (but one committed nevertheless by some illustrious thinkers who had previously confronted the same question). Camus sought to “live without appeal” to such either religious or philosophical inventions.

  Rather, in the lucid recognition of the absurd condition and the abandonment of “divine fables,” Camus saw freedom—to think, to create, and to live in a world “of which man is the sole master. What bound him was the illusion of another world.” The hero of Camus’s absurd world was Sisyphus. In the last chapter of his essay, Camus used the myth to make the connection between embracing the absurd and finding happiness. Sisyphus had been condemned by the gods to rolling his rock repeatedly up the mountain, only to have it roll back down each time. But for Camus, it was Sisyphus’s scorn of the gods, his hatred of death, and his passion for life in the face of such a futile struggle that illustrated his essential point: man knows himself to be the master of his days. He concluded: “The struggle toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

  Having begun with the question of suicide, this tubercular Algerian without a franc to his name and living under a regime that valued neither freedom nor human life, crafted what he believed was “a manual of happiness.”

  On February 21, 1941, Camus recorded in his notebook, “Finished Sisyphus. The three absurds are now complete. Beginnings of liberty.”

  Liberty perhaps, but not prosperity. Camus’s two previous works—The Stranger and Caligula—were also unpublished; he was out of work and almost unknown as an author. Camus had no publisher for his trilogy, and even if he had had one, publication was difficult for anyone at the time. There was a severe paper shortage, as well as the censors to get past.

  And before Camus could be published, there was the question of whether what he had written had any merit. While Francine copied The Myth of Sisyphus for distribution—by hand, as they had no typewriter, Camus sent copies of The Stranger and Caligula to former teacher Jean Grenier and to Pascal Pia in Lyon. Grenier gave the first a positive review: “L’Étranger is very successful, especially the second part, despite the troubling influence of Kafka. The pages about prison are unforgettable.” But he did not like the play: “Perhaps in the theater it will seem different.”

  Pia loved the novel: “Very sincerely, it has been a long time since I have read something of this quality. I am convinced that sooner or later L’Étranger will find its place, which is among the best. The second part—the pretrial investigations, the trial, the prison—is a demonstration of the absurd put together like a perfect mechanism.”

  Pia had several connections in the literary and publishing world, and assigned himself the task of getting his friend published. It was important to secure endorsements from established literary figures, so he gave the manuscript to André Malraux’s brother-in-law to pass on to the Goncourt Prize–winning novelist, and to writer Jean Paulhan, former editor of the Nouvelle Revue Française (NRF), the most influential French literary magazine prior to the war. (Paulhan was also a member of the Musée de l’Homme network; he was arrested in early May 1941 and released after a week.) The NRF was published by Gaston Gallimard, and Pia thought that Gallimard would be interested in publishing Camus if Paulhan and Malraux offered favorable recommendations.

  The two luminaries were both impressed with The Stranger. Malraux wrote to Pia: “L’Étranger is obviously an important thing. The power and simplicity of the means which finally force the reader to accept his character’s point of view are all the more remarkable in that the book’s destiny depends on whether this character is convincing or not. And what Camus has to say while convincing us is not negligible.”

  Paulhan reported: “I read L’Étranger in one sitting … It’s very fine, frankly very good. Germaine [his wife] and I were gripped by it.”

  Pia thought that Camus’s three works should be published together, so when copies of The Myth of Sisyphus had been made, he also sent those along to Malraux and Paulhan. Malraux wrote directly to Camus after reading the essay: “The link between Sisyphe and L’Étranger has many more consequences than I supposed. The essay gives the other book its full meaning.” Malraux told Camus that he was going to recommend to Gallimard that he publish the books at the same time: “What matters is that with these two books together, you take your place among the writers who exist, who have a voice, and who will soon have an audience and a presence. There are not that many.”

  Reaching that audience, however, would pose many challenges. Publishing any book, let alone two, in France’s crippled economy was difficult. Malraux reminded Camus, “The problem of paper being scarce remains.”

  There was also the matter of the German censors. The Myth of Sisyphus included a chapter on Franz Kafka. Because Kafka was a Czech Jew, his works were considered harmful and undesirable. They had been banned in Germany and withdrawn from publication in France. Gallimard told Camus that he indeed wanted to publish The Stranger and The Myth of Sisyphus, but he had to request reluctantly that the Kafka chapter be excised. Camus had no option but to comply.

  And there was also uncertainty about how Camus’s stark analysis yet positive message in The Myth of Sisyphus might be received by readers living under such oppressive conditions—conditions that would worsen considerably by the time the book appeared in print in October 1942. Camus condensed his message for the paper band that bookstore patrons would see wrapped around his book: “Sisyphus, or Happiness in Hell.”

  CHAPTER 10

  THE TERROR BEGINS

  The best political weapon is the weapon of terror. Cruelty commands respect.

  —HEINRICH HIMMLER, Reichsführer of the SS

  IN JUNE 1941, HITLER FLOUTED HIS NONAGGRESSION PACT WITH Stalin and launched a massive surprise invasion of the USSR. Dubbed Operation Barbarossa, it was an enormous gamble. Hitler was betting that German forces could subdue the Soviets in a blitzkrieg, as they had done to western Europe, before the Russian winter set in. The consequences of success or failure would be great. Either the USSR would fall and its people and lands would be subjugated by the Reich, or it would hold and Hitler would face the strategic and logistical challenges of conducting a war on two fronts.

  Either outcome h
ad important implications for the prospect of France’s liberation. On the one hand, if Hitler prevailed, the Reich could become even stronger as it exploited Soviet resources and manpower. And in that case, their Vichy collaborators also stood to gain. Alternatively, if the campaign bogged down, the eastern front would engage troops and drain resources that might otherwise be used to strengthen and defend the western front against a potential Allied invasion.

  One of the immediate consequences of Hitler’s invasion of the USSR was to free French Communists to act against the Occupation forces. The French Communist Party (Parti Communiste Français, or PCF) was very disciplined and faithfully adhered to policies dictated by Moscow and disseminated by Comintern, the international Communist organization. For several years prior to the war, the PCF had been a part of the “popular front” of left-wing parties resolutely opposed to Fascism. The nonaggression treaty between Germany and the Soviet Union, signed just a week before the invasion of Poland, had thus stunned French Communists, and the PCF was promptly banned after the start of the war. The invasion and subsequent occupation of France then put the Party and its members into the irresolvable dilemma of balancing their patriotic duty to defend France with their loyalty to Moscow.

  As a result, Communist loyalties were suspect, and their voices and actions during the first year of occupation were somewhat restrained, particularly in the occupied zone.

  In the non-occupied zone, Communists were more openly hostile to Vichy, as Vichy was to the Communists. Vichy dissolved the PCF in late September 1940, and thousands of Communists were arrested in Paris in the first week of October.

  After the invasion of the USSR, Comintern reversed course and instructed the PCF to launch an armed struggle against the Germans. Weakened by the mass arrests, the absence of its leaders, and disillusionment over the temporary détente with Hitler, very few members responded at first. One who did was twenty-one-year-old Pierre Georges, a veteran of the Spanish Civil War, and later known as Colonel Fabien. Georges had been arrested in the mass roundups of Communists the previous fall but had escaped. On August 19, two of his comrades had been executed after having been arrested in a demonstration. On the morning of August 21, 1941, Georges entered the Barbès-Rochechouart Métro station in Montmartre and fired two shots at a young German naval cadet standing on the platform, killing him. Georges then slipped away into the crowd.

  The shooting of a German officer in broad daylight surprised and alarmed the authorities. Suspecting that the attack was intended to arouse anti-German resistance, some commanders urged swift reprisals. Vichy government representatives told the German administration that it blamed the attack on Communists and promised to try, convict, and sentence several Communists to death. Three men were executed just one week after the Métro killing. In the meantime, Gen. Otto von Stülpnagel, military commander in France (Militärbefehlshaber in Frankreich, or MBF), decided to issue a warning that was published in newspapers and broadcast on radio: “Beginning August 23, all Frenchmen taken into custody, either by the German authorities in France or on orders originating with them, will be regarded as hostages. Should any further criminal action occur, hostages will be shot in a number corresponding to the seriousness of that action.”

  But Communists in particular were not deterred. Their calculation was that their violent acts showed their solidarity with the Soviet Union and that German reprisals would alienate the French population. Another attack followed soon after the Métro killing when, on September 3, two Communists wounded an officer at the entrance to the Hôtel Terminus. Von Stülpnagel ordered the execution of three more Communist hostages held in custody. In response to three more minor attacks over the following week, von Stülpnagel ordered the execution of ten additional hostages. On September 16, a captain was killed on the boulevard de Strasbourg. Von Stülpnagel ordered that twelve hostages be shot.

  Hitler was not satisfied with the magnitude of the reprisals. After the first two attacks, he thought that the killing of three hostages was “much too mild.” Through an intermediary, he told von Stülpnagel that “a German soldier is worth more than three communists.” Hitler thought that a ratio of one hundred hostages to one German was more appropriate. Therefore, he urged that fifty more hostages be executed, that another fifty be executed if the perpetrator was not caught promptly, and that von Stülpnagel arrest another three hundred hostages and execute one hundred of them if another German was assassinated.

  Von Stülpnagel was deeply concerned that such mass reprisals would backfire, alienating the population and stoking greater anti-German feelings. He even asked to be recalled if such orders were to be enforced. But Berlin was deaf to such considerations and concerned only that retribution be swift and overwhelming.

  On October 20, two of Fabien’s comrades gunned down the Feldkommandant of Nantes outside the city’s cathedral. He was the highest-ranking German killed up to that time. Hitler learned of the attack within a few hours. Von Stülpnagel asked to delay any executions while the crime was investigated. Hitler ordered that fifty hostages be executed immediately, fifty more twenty-four hours later, and another fifty twenty-fours after that if the assassins had not yet been caught. Forty-eight hostages, the majority of whom were Communists, were selected and shot on October 22. The consequences for attacking Germans were underscored in the next day’s newspaper by the long list of the names of those executed.

  But the executions were not over. The previous day, there had been another killing when a young Communist shot a civilian military adviser in Bordeaux. In reprisal for that murder, another fifty hostages were selected and shot on October 24.

  The groups of hostages who were shot included a wide assortment of Frenchmen. Some had been convicted of serious crimes against the German occupiers, such as sabotage, but others were guilty of no more than being a Communist, some as young as seventeen-year-old Guy Môquet. Vichy officials shared von Stülpnagel’s worry that the killing of innocent Frenchmen would provoke and not subdue resistance. On the evening of October 22, Pétain addressed the nation by radio: “Frenchmen, two shots have been fired at officers of the army of occupation: two are dead … This morning, fifty Frenchmen have paid for these unspeakable crimes with their lives. Fifty more will be shot tomorrow if the guilty are not caught … Frenchmen, your duty is clear: the murders must stop. According to the Armistice, we set down our arms, we do not have the right to strike Germany in the back. The foreigner who ordered these crimes knows well that this is clearly murder.”

  Still, the attacks continued, some aimed at Germans, some at French policemen. A hand grenade was thrown into a Wehrmacht canteen; another grenade attack was on a military traffic post, yet another on boulevard Montparnasse; and there were shootings on boulevard Magenta, rue de la Seine, boulevard Malesherbes, and rue des Maronites. Altogether, there were sixty-eight incidents in Paris or elsewhere by the end of 1941.

  Seeking additional deterrents against such attacks, Hitler issued the Nacht-und-Nebel Erlass (Night-and-Fog Decree) on December 7, 1941, for dealing with resisters and other “offenders” in occupied territories. The name was an allusion to Richard Wagner’s opera Das Rheingold, in which the character Alberich makes himself invisible so as to torment his subjects. The directive acknowledged: “Within the occupied territories, communistic elements and other circles hostile to Germany have increased their efforts against the German State and the occupying powers since the Russian campaign started. The amount and the danger of these machinations oblige us to take severe measures as a deterrent.” The order reiterated that “the adequate punishment for offences committed against the German State or the occupying power which endanger their security or a state of readiness is on principle the death penalty.” But Hitler and the High Command thought that, in addition to summary executions, there would be some intimidation value to making resisters simply disappear into the “night and fog” of German concentration camps, without a trial, and without their families knowing their destination or fate. Mak
ing opponents disappear would also circumvent the potential backlash of publicly announced executions.

  THE VAST MAJORITY of French people condemned both the assassinations and the German reprisals, and very few were in favor of resistance. Nonetheless, the surge in Communist-led resistance gave rise to the formation and expansion of affiliated resistance groups. Although he was not a Communist, and despite the potential consequences of being affiliated with them, Monod joined a Communist-inspired university organization toward the end of 1941. The total number of casualties or damage inflicted by the first wave of armed resistance was, in fact, militarily and strategically insignificant. The attacks were isolated and uncoordinated. If resistance was to become a more substantive factor in France, many more citizens would need to participate. Recruitment was a key priority. Therefore, one focus of Monod’s group and of his activity was to recruit students to the cause.

  In addition, Monod helped put together tracts that were published from time to time. Working in the recesses of his old laboratory at the Sorbonne, Monod and several colleagues wrote and duplicated the text and disseminated it among students and academics.

  As if Monod needed any reminder of the risks he was taking, in January 1942, his former comrade Léon-Maurice Nordmann and other members of the Musée network went on trial. While Nordmann had at first been charged only with distributing Résistance and received a modest sentence, he was subsequently charged with espionage, as were several other members of the network. Despite a lack of evidence, the virulently anti-Semitic prosecutor zealously pursued Nordmann.